


Deaf As A Wound

by vintage_granddad



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6995017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintage_granddad/pseuds/vintage_granddad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The world ended for Steve Rogers in 1945: slipped and fell right out of his hands, and no super-serum could have made him strong enough or fast enough to stop it from happening. Bucky was always picking him up when he fell, and the only time he had to return the favor, he couldn't. Seventy years later, Steve was on a downward spiral all the time with nothing to find purchase on without Bucky by his side: but then Bucky was there, pulling him from the river. Saving him, just like he always did. Steve would hold on this time. No matter what."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my number one girl.  
> I'm with you till the end of the line.

_i_

_Love is not a profession  
genteel or otherwise_

_sex is not dentistry  
the slick filling of aches and cavities_

_you are not my doctor  
you are not my cure,_

_nobody has that  
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller._

_Give up this medical concern,  
buttoned, attentive,_

_permit yourself anger  
and permit me mine_

_which needs neither  
your approval nor your surprise_

_which does not need to be made legal  
which is not against a disease_

_but against you,  
which does not need to be understood_

_or washed or cauterized,  
which needs instead_

_to be said and said._  
_Permit me the present tense.  
_

IS / NOT - Margaret Atwood

 

“I need to be decommissioned,” he says to himself, to his cereal, to no one at all. He doesn’t even realize that he has said it out loud, not at first. It was just a thought, but then he looks up to see wide eyes staring at him.  


“Buck,” the captain says, but that isn’t who he is talking to and they both know it. He would never be who Steve wants him to be, _needs_ him to be. Rogers lowers his spoon and starts again. “What do you mean?”  


“Terminated, deleted, broken down,” the soldier lists synonyms, as ordered. It was always easier when he had orders, but Steve didn’t often tell him what to do, and left to his own devices, the soldier is lost. “Finished, disassembled,” he continues, but the captain cuts him off, supplying one of his own.  


“Dead. You mean dead.”  


The soldier just stares at him, saying nothing.  


“You’re a person, Bucky. You don’t _get_ disassembled. You don’t get _decommissioned_. You _die_.” It’s clear that a nerve was hit. Semantics seem to be important to the captain, the soldier notes, not for the first time. Neither of them say anything more for the duration of the meal, and after, the soldier slinks back to his room, sliding the lock into place behind him.  


He doesn’t sleep. Not often, at least. He tries to remember things, but mostly just ends up sitting in bed, staring at the wall across from him. He wants to remember, he _wants_ to. At first, that had come as a shock to him. He was a weapon, he had never been meant to have wants. He had had needs, and he could follow up on them: He could find shelter and food, he could take care of himself, keep himself functioning at optimum capacities. But _wants?_  


After the helicarrier, he went to the meet-up point, but there was no one there for him. He waited. And waited. He wasn’t sure how long he waited for someone to come and retrieve him but it never happened. That was when he had the first want. After three weeks of waiting, it happened. He was returning from gathering scraps things that might have once been edible when he thought absently that he wanted someone to come and take him. He wanted orders, he wanted purpose. He was sick of this aimless waiting. The realization that he had wanted unsettled the soldier. He couldn’t ever remember having wanted anything before, but then again, he couldn’t remember much of anything.  


It wasn’t free will, it was a defect. The wants were a symptom, he needed to be reset.  


He didn’t know where else to go, who to report to, so he found the captain. Steve Rogers was his mission, after all. Some small part of him, some crumpling edge of a dream told him that he did this because he didn’t want to be reset, he didn’t want to go back. But when he awoke, the thought was nothing more than another thing he couldn’t remember.  


Of course, getting to Captain America wasn’t going to be easy, but having a task, a mission, made the waiting easier. The soldier did research, tracked his target, tried to remember. Rogers thought he knew him, and the soldier clung to that like a lifeboat as he sat in empty parking garages and warehouses, underpasses and homeless shelters. It was one of the only memories he had in his goddamn empty head. Most things were reflexes, instincts. He knew things without knowing _how_ he knew them. But Rogers knew him. Knew him as a _person_. And now, Rogers recognizing him was memory of his very own.  


If he could just get close enough, the captain would handle the rest. He helped people, didn’t he? Wasn’t that the point of a _hero_?

The escape had been the captain’s idea. The soldier just wanted orders, nothing more. He was not looking to be free. Rogers had insisted upon it though. “You’re a wanted man,” he had said. “If they find you-” he didn’t finish the thought, voice growing tight. The soldier said nothing, he never said anything unsolicited. “We’ve gotta get out of here,” the captain was pacing. “We’ve gotta get _you_ out of here.” Which of course, was easier said than done. Because the captain was _Captain America_ , not just some faceless veteran shuffling down the street. Everyone knew his name.  


It made no difference to the soldier what happened next. Steve sat down across from him, elbows on knees, leaning forward. How easy it would be, the soldier had thought, to take him out right now. In this position, he isn’t poised to escape and attack, to defend himself. He wouldn’t be expecting it. He isn’t --  


“Gonna be okay,” the captain was saying, and the soldier realized that he had spaced out. He hadn’t been listening at all. “You can do that right? Just lie low for a bit? Until I’m ready to go?” The soldier nodded, mechanically. “I’ll come back for you, just wait for me.” It seemed that the captain thought he would bolt, and, well, why wouldn’t he think that? But that at least was an order. Wait. He could handle that.  


Steve Rogers came back for him three days later, with a duffle bag and a half cocked escape plan. And in the bathroom of the abandoned warehouse, he cut the soldier’s hair. Steve’s hands on the back of his neck were gentle and warm but the soldier was rigid nonetheless. He didn’t flinch at the touch, he couldn’t flinch. He doesn’t know why. The thought made him want to feel something but he had nothing there.  


Rogers dyed his own short hair the same color as the soldier’s. He then sat the soldier down on a toilet and carefully shaved his face. Compliant. The soldier let it happen. The whole time, Rogers filled him in on the details, but the only thing the soldier listened for are the orders. The steps. He didn’t care about the side stories and anecdotes. They were irrelevant.  


Rogers slept with him on the floor that night. They stayed there for two more nights before they finally took off, a train out of the city and then a car the soldier stole out of town. They left a trail of stolen cars. but they were always clean about it. No fingerprints and no witnesses. The soldier had learned well.  


Rogers had chosen a small town in the middle of nowhere as their final destination. They don’t talk. Often, the captain will ask him questions, or tell him stories, but he seems to have accepted the silence he is met with.The soldier knew that this is because he believes his friend has returned. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, inseparable since childhood, reunited once more. But that isn’t the reality that the soldier lives in, because that isn’t the reality at all. Yet he relies on this lie to keep him going. It was all very strange.  


The soldier is aware that the face of James Barnes is identical to his own, but he is a weapon, and Barnes was a person. _Barnes was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country_ , the soldier thinks, pulling the quote from a museum. And yet...  


Even if he was once this man that the captain so desperately wants him to be, that man is dead. Even if he is. Even if he is parading around in Barnes’ body, the man inside is still dead. There’s nothing left of him now. He would have been ashamed if he knew. Again, the soldier feels -- _something_. But it is nonsensical and wrong. It is useless. He rubs his face. He is long overdue for a reset. He remembers, for a brief second, the last one. “He knew me,” he had said, and they had to wipe him. He was malfunctioning. He wasn’t supposed to have thoughts. He dully wished that they had done a better job wiping him. Maybe then he wouldn’t have failed his mission and they would have taken him back.  


Rogers had to know that he had a weapon in his passenger seat. That he wasn’t made for play-acting as a war hero. That that would just be a mockery of the dead.  


Rogers found an apartment for the two of them, top floor, one room, already furnished. Steve took the couch and let the soldier have the bedroom, although they are both aware that he won’t sleep. “We’ll just be here until you get your memories back, and then we’ll move back to the city,” Steve says. And the soldier can’t blame him. He couldn’t just have a bomb waiting in one of the most densely populated cities in the country. The soldier was constantly on the verge of detonation: he was dangerous, and who knew who would suffer by it. The soldier would have done the same thing, if he was in Steve’s place. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe that was the problem.  


Months after their move, Rogers admits that he is being selfish. They had slipped into a surface domesticity: Rogers got on with the neighbors and had a job doing commissioned paintings. Sometimes he would force the soldier out of the house, _to get some fresh air_ , and they would go for walks or see a movie or go to the store. But the soldier still rarely talks and mostly just sits in his room trying to remember, to be good.  


The soldier doesn’t say anything to that, and won’t ask, because he knows that Steve will keep talking anyways. Steve says that he is being selfish by keeping the soldier here. “And I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best... Or maybe it isn’t.” But the soldier doesn’t understand the correlation between charity and selfishness. He knows that Rogers is doing everything he can to give the soldier a chance at -- at something. He doesn’t know what. A life? Can he have that? Is he _allowed_?  


It is something of a facsimile of a normal life. He smiles at the neighbors when he goes out to get the paper. He leaves food out for the stray cats behind their building. He eats food that wasn’t found in a garbage can. There was a bed to sleep in, if he ever feels the inclination.  


Of course there is still the blackouts, there’s still the nightmares, but there are other things, too. There’s the way Steve smiles at him when he gets out of the shower, or when he comes in with the paper. When he comes back. There’s things to learn. There is a deaf girl, River, across the hall and Steve has got it in his head that they have to learn sign language to talk to her. She stares with wide brown eyes at his metal arm, and smiles. She isn’t laughing at him. She’s not staring because she pities him or thinks he is broken. She’s staring because they’re the same. They’re both missing pieces of themselves.  


There’s still books. The soldier has really taken to reading shitty novels after finding four in the glove compartment of a stolen car. He goes through one or two a day. When Steve comes home from his errands, he always comes with bags of them for the soldier. Even though the information is useless, he can’t put them down. Even when the writing is terrible. He’s got not much else in his head and he’s filling the void.  


He awakens with a start, as he often does, screaming. And Steve is there, brushing his hair out of his face, holding him, whispering to him. Some nights, the soldier screams just to see how long it will take Steve to be at his side. Just to see if he will still come. He always does. Sometimes, Steve even sleeps on the floor by the bed, just in case. On those nights, the soldier waits until the captain’s breathing slows and evens out, and slinks down onto the ground next to him. He wraps himself around him. He doesn’t know why he does it, why he is compelled to do it. But he feels safer like that.  


It occurred to him on one such night that, even though he was still dangerous, even though death was on his fingertips and the edges of his teeth, he wasn’t a weapon anymore. He was a murderer. There was accountability now and that made it a million times worse. He was a murderer, _is_ a murderer, because he is a person. Albeit a broken and royally fucked up person, but still a person on some level and not just a thoughtless set of skills wrapped up in a human skin. Steve calls him Bucky and buys him presents and is patient and caring and kind because he knows this, he knew it all along.  


The girl across the hall has been taking painting lessons from Steve. Usually the soldier hides in the bedroom the whole time she is there, but the next day, the soldier sits on the couch, watching them over the top of some shitty book. The two of them sit at the kitchen table and Steve writes notes to her when he can’t sign what he needs to tell her. The captain is very good with the child, despite the hurdle he must leap over in order to communicate with her.  


He wonders if the silence bothers her, but he knows better. She doesn’t know a world with sound. He wonders if the silence bothers _Steve_. The soldier puts on an old record, testing the waters. The captain smiles but doesn’t say anything about it. The soldier feels, he feels pride? Happiness? Something good and warm, knowing that he did something right. He finishes the book and falls asleep on the couch. When he wakes up, there’s a blanket draped over him and the captain is cooking something for dinner.  


That night, Steve heads to the couch after brushing his teeth, and the soldier follows, grabbing his wrist and leading him back to the bed. They climb into bed together, facing each other in the darkened room. The soldier waits for Steve to fall asleep before he allows himself to nod off. He wakes up a few hours later, on the side of the road. He checks himself, no injuries. The road is a one way, with woods in all directions. A highway. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Sometimes, he finds his way home on his own. Sometimes, he walks or hitches a ride. This time, he calls Steve. He had been given a phone for times like this, and he sends off a drop pin. By the time Steve gets to him, dawn is approaching and there are more cars on the road. Steve’s white knuckled grip on the steering wheel is a clear indication of distress. This is the furthest the soldier has gone before waking up.  


“You know I’m never sure if you’re gonna come back,” he says in a stern voice through gritted teeth. “You just take off in the middle of the night and don’t tell me where you’re going. What if something happened to you?” He takes a breath, trying to keep calm. His eyes are still on the road. “Jesus, Buck, do you have any idea how _worried_ I was about you?” His voice is raised a little, his face a little red.  


They’re both completely silent for a moment, and the soldier can hear the captain breathing over the sound of the car’s engine. “I’m sorry,” the soldier finally says. And he is. But it’s a struggle to get the words out. They are dragged through and out of him, and he wants to say more but he can’t.  


So when they get back to the apartment, the soldier locks himself in the room, a storm of self-hatred and isolation. Steve goes about his day, having River over in the afternoon. The soldier comes out of the room shortly after she arrives. He pours coffee for himself and Steve and sits down at the table with them. He is rigid and his eyes are bloodshot. The child, River, looks up at him and smiles. She shows him her painting. He forces himself to smile back at her. But it isn’t as hard as he thought it would be. It isn’t a reflex, but it’s genuine nonetheless.  


She takes a pen and writes, careful print letters. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”  


The soldier swallows, looks at Steve, who shrugs and raises his eyebrows. The soldier must consider this. He doesn’t really know. He cannot write soldier, or weapon, or asset. He cannot write nothing. He wants to write nothing. He wants to be a void sign, a backspace, to be whited out. He doesn’t know who he is.  


He picks up the pen, taking the paper, and writes, with equal precision.  


“BUCKY”


	2. Chapter 2

He frames the paper, and hangs it above the bed in their apartment. He had expected Bucky to protest, but, as always, he doesn’t say anything. If he notices it, he doesn’t let on. The apartment is small and undecorated, very utilitarian. It is the only thing hanging on the walls. But it serves as a reminder that Bucky is a person.  


Steve is both in his twenties and in his seventies, which makes things very difficult for him. He remembers the Great Depression like it was yesterday, but he can’t name the past five presidents. He has no idea what’s going on most of the time because he has no historical context for it. He didn’t grow up on the same music and movies and books that most people “his age” are familiar with, and he has missed a whole lifetime of experiences that the people he would have grown up with have had.  


The woman across the hall, Deanna, is a single mom and often brings over casseroles. She has her daughter take painting lessons with him, and often lingers in the doorframe when retrieving River. Deanna asks him out to dinner, and he politely, respectfully declines, but she keeps asking. There’s an old woman on the first floor, Cecilia, who sometimes thinks that he’s her deceased husband and he can talk to her about things that happened back when because she lives in a time where World War II is very real and not just a distant, bad memory.  


It’s hard, Steve thinks, to find someone to talk to when the only person he wants to talk to rarely speaks.  


It’s mid-winter, February, and the night comes much too soon, cold and bitter. They wake up, huddled together but never talk about it in the early hours of bleak, watery dawn. Steve makes coffee while Bucky is in the shower. When he gets out, wrapped in a towel, he accepts the warm mug before heading into the bedroom to get dressed, and Steve tries not to think too hard about how his fingers linger over Steve’s own. Tries not to think about the slight smile. Tries not to read too much into it.  


They bundle up in jackets and gloves. Bucky holds the gloves in his hands, staring down at them and Steve knows that he appreciates the cold. It’s easier to hide. He wonders, absently, what they will do in the summer. Maybe they can go somewhere more remote, camping. Or maybe they’ll stay inside all day. It doesn’t seem fair that Bucky has to hide all the time. He deserves better. Fuck, he’s been trapped and hidden so long, isn’t it his _right_ to finally be free?  


They walk to the grocery store, hands stuffed in coat pockets and pink noses tucked into knitted scarves that Cecilia had given them for Christmas. The clouds are rolling in from the distance, dark and ominous and Steve knows that a snowstorm is on the way. Everyone has been talking about it for weeks now. “Stock up on candles,” Deanna had said with a wink, “we might lose power.”  


As far as winters go, this one was relatively mild. Though, to be fair, any winter would be mild in comparison to being frozen for over half a century. Steve notes that they should pick up extra blankets while they’re out anyways, just in case. At the store, Bucky grabs small amounts of fruit and puts them in the basket, wordlessly. He stares, wide eyed, at everything as though seeing it for the first time. His cheeks are rosy from the cold and his eyes are bright, but not afraid. He keeps his metal hand tucked deep within his pocket. They’re in the cereal aisle when it happens.  


There’s an old couple coming down the aisle towards them and Bucky isn’t paying attention, so Steve reaches out and grabs his hand, pulling him out of the way. But when he releases him, Bucky’s hand seeks his out again, intertwining their fingers together. They stand like that for a minute, staring at each other. Steve looks at him and Bucky’s face is all questions and searching and hope. Steve squeezes his hand, a reassurance. Bucky smiles, soft as the winter clouds and warm as the summer sun, and in Steve’s chest, a garden is blooming. They finish their shopping and Steve never lets go: not when he’s paying, now when he’s bagging, not when he’s unlocking the door to their apartment or putting the groceries away. They don’t let go to even put on gloves for the cold walk home.  


Bucky follows him around with his eyes to the ground and doesn’t try to make a break for it. He never pulls away. It’s the first time Bucky has initiated contact like this and not backed down after. Always in the morning, it is like it hadn’t happened, and Steve had grown accustomed to the lack of acknowledgment. Bucky sits closer to him that night, on the couch, reading more quick novels. And when the snow starts, soft and bright, they curl up together under a blanket and watch through the window until darkness settles around them and Bucky’s breathing has evened out. Steve wakes up and the lights are out. The air is cold but the heat from Bucky’s cheek on his chest and his fingers curled into Steve’s shirtfront bloom something warm in Steve’s veins and he makes no move to get up.  


He is forced then, to remember how things were, and in some weird, distant way, how they _could have been_. Because back when everything was a struggle and Steve was always sick and cold, Bucky would come home from working on the docks and wrap himself around him. And there was this unsaid hope, always, that things could stay like that: with Bucky’s chest pressed to his spine, hearts beating in time in the dead of night.  


When they were kids, Steve would sleep over Bucky’s, on his bedroom floor, and they would stay up all night talking. Steve still sleeps on the floor by Bucky’s bed, but now the stretches of silence are longer than the words between them.  


Steve remembers before Bucky went off to war and they used to talk about the future as though there could ever be one with some semblance of normalcy. They both knew, on some level, that there would never be a white picket fence life for the two of them to share. And Bucky would find these girls for Steve to go out with and Steve wouldn’t have it because he couldn’t have it because he didn’t want it if it wasn’t with Bucky.  


There used to be these two old ladies who lived together in Steve’s building, and Steve used to stare at them and think that was what he wanted. He was pretty sure they were sisters, but neither of them ever found husbands and they just lived together forever and Steve used to want that with Bucky. Still wants it with Bucky, but he knows better now. He knows now that it isn’t that he wants to have his best friend with him at all times (though he does), he knows it’s more complex than that.  


But then Bucky was off all the way around the world and Peggy Carter had these red lips and took no shit and she was tough and beautiful and maybe, just maybe, Bucky had been right all along. Maybe there had been hope for Steve to have a cut-out perfect American life; with a job and a pretty wife and they could have it all.  


It fucking hurts, but Steve remembers. Steve remembers that Peggy treated him like a person and not an icon, a symbol for the nation to rally around. Steve Rogers could dress up like a hero all day, and the world would call him Captain America, a leader, a champion, a star. But he wasn’t any of those things. Not really. And he certainly couldn’t have gone on pretending to be any of those things without Bucky by his side.  


And he crashed the plane because he was just so tired. And he wakes up after sleeping for seventy years more tired than he had ever been.  


But then spring is coming, and things are getting better. River is on break from school. Her mom offers Steve ten dollars a day to watch her, which he accepts. Bucky tells him that it isn’t really a good deal but he just laughs because it isn’t about the money. It’s about helping people out. Bucky gets quiet after that, considering.  


On the first two days of her break, it is rainy, so they sit around watching “classic” movies; _Star Wars_ , _Star Trek_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Lord of the Rings_. Bucky sits closer to him than before, their thighs pressed together. He notices beside him, Bucky replicating the facial expressions portrayed on the screen. Practicing. He doesn’t know how to feel anymore, doesn’t know how to show it. But. He’s getting better.  


When the weather finally allows, they go to the park and Steve and Bucky watch River on the playground from a bench. Bucky is stiff and alert and ready. Steve knows he is waiting for a fight, for danger to crop up, for something wrong to happen but it doesn’t. And when Steve slips his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, he is rigid, but eventually relaxes into the touch. Steve leans in, whispering; _it’s okay, you’re okay, we’re safe_.  


It strikes Steve then, how much River looks like Natasha, with her pinched chin and furrowed brows. He misses her, a dull ache. He didn’t think that it would be so hard to leave everyone behind. He sometimes wonders if it was worth it, in the silent stretches of afternoons when he has never felt more alone, more isolated. He knows that things are going to get better, but it’s just so much waiting. Bucky’s not all there yet and he wants him to be. Time has stretched out in a weird sort of way where each day feels like years and each week feels like a second. He wonders if it is worth it, if Bucky will ever even be a person again. If he remembers him or if he even cares. But then he feels him pressed behind him in the dead of night, heavy mechanical arm drawing Steve closer to him and he knows it is. If he can have this for one minute, it’s worth it to lose everything else.  


They go home and River paints at the kitchen table until her mom comes home from work. Bucky is sitting at the table signing with River, and Deanna leans in the doorframe, making small talk with Steve. Steve knows that Bucky is aware of her presence, but it takes River slightly longer, and when she does, she goes running to her mom. Bucky trails after her, and stops at Steve’s side, sliding his hand into Steve’s own.  


Steve is remotely aware that Deanna had no idea that someone else was living in the apartment with him, and he can see the gears shifting in her head as she puts two and two together. He knows what conclusion she’s coming up with and while she isn’t completely wrong, she isn’t entirely right, either. Because as much as Steve wants and wants, things with Bucky are fragile. They’re still figuring it all out.  


But maybe things are going better than he had thought.  


Bucky begins joining them during their painting lessons, and he starts following Steve out of the apartment more, picking up groceries and wandering around libraries. They go on runs, and Bucky can keep up with him. It’s a weird sort of feeling, a stark contrast to his runs with Sam.  


Bucky is exponentially closer. It’s kind of all at once. He holds his hand and follows him around and Steve isn’t sure what it is that has changed but he doesn’t ask, nervous to upset this careful equilibrium that they have settled into. He still disappears sometimes. He’s still reticent. But at the end of the day, he’s Bucky. He’s finally there.  


Sometimes, he drinks, and Steve watches him from across the room. Sitting alone at the kitchen table while Steve is painting by the window, Bucky will down a bottle. Though it would take an incredible amount of liquor to get him fully intoxicated, he sometimes gets somewhat tipsy. He gets more talkative then, but never says anything of import. He will talk about the books he’s read or things that they should do come summer. He sometimes even makes jokes and Steve knows that someday he will be able to communicate without the aid of alcohol.  


Steve wakes up alone in the middle of the night. It’s approaching May and though the days are growing warmer, the nights are often still bitterly cold; and without Bucky in the bed with him, the cold is so much more noticeable. The alarm clock on the bedside table says it’s near three thirty, and Steve rolls over to face the wall instead. The light from the window illuminates a single framed paper. “What’s your name? / Bucky.” and Steve smiles to himself. He waits for Bucky to come back, but he doesn’t. His phone buzzes beside him, a text from Bucky, and he lets out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding.  


They get back to the apartment and Steve asks him, kicking off his boots, if he ever remembers what he does when he’s gone. Bucky just shakes his head. His lips are a little blue and he’s got this haunted, hollow look in his eyes. Steve doesn’t want to push it, so he steers him back to bed, holds him still until morning.  


That following morning is when things begin to fall apart, because God forbid they could have one good thing, one moment of peace in their lives. Bucky is sitting on the couch watching the morning news and Steve is cooking breakfast when suddenly, everything is quiet. He looks up to see that Bucky has paused the television. He walks over, standing behind the couch, and they both stare at the screen for a minute not talking.  


It is a shot of two bodies, covered in tarps, in the center of town. Steve stares in abject horror at the screen as the program resumes -- “found early this morning by joggers, the bodies have been identified as local students. The cause of death has been determined to be gunshot wounds though the police have yet to issue a statement” the newscaster is saying. Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It is a long time before either of them speak.  


Finally, Bucky looks up at Steve, and his face is carved out of fear. He swallows, and in a hoarse voice, he manages, “Did I do that?”


	3. Chapter 3

Finding Steve Rogers wasn’t at all very difficult. He was a walking target. A target that could fight back, but a target nonetheless. He also wasn’t as careful as he would like to think that he is. There had been many sightings and with the help of the Internet, it was really just a matter of time (eight months, to be exact). Turning him in, that was another story. Natasha hadn’t expected what she had found. Or maybe she had, but it still took her by surprise. The prevailing theory was that he had been _taken_ by the Winter Soldier, but Natasha had believed he had left on his own accord. She wasn’t entirely sure if it had anything to do with the Winter Soldier or not. Maybe he had always been planning on leaving and the events of Project Insight only exacerbated it. The captain, regardless of whether or not anyone chose to acknowledge it, had a difficult time adjusting to life in the future. Yes, he put on a brave face for the public, but Natasha was trained to see beyond the surface. It turns out that neither theory was entirely wrong.

She was perched in a tree, looking through the window of his small, bland apartment. There he was; healthy, safe, bearded (???), but otherwise happy. He was sitting across the table from a small child. They were painting together. He was smiling. Then, the assassin, the criminal, the weapon, the Winter Soldier himself, approached the table. He put his hand, the human hand, on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed as he passed by on his way to the fridge. He took out a pitcher and poured three glasses of something, handing one to Rogers and the child. He said something, but Natasha was too far away to read his lips. Steve laughed in response. 

Turning Steve Rogers in might be one of the hardest things she would ever have to do. 

She gets a hotel room in town, to give herself time to plot her next move. She had had no qualms about finding Rogers; which pleased everyone greatly, as she was clearly the most qualified for the job. It was supposed to be a retrieval, a locate and extraction. There was no room for moral gray areas in the mission. 

Natasha sits down heavily on the bed and puts her head in her hands, thinking. Rogers had fled -- because that’s what it was now; he hadn’t _vanished_ , he hadn’t _been captured_ , he had _fled_ \-- to start a new life for himself. One without constant surveillance and monitoring, with less responsibility. A life with more freedom. Ironic, how Captain America, who is supposed to protect that right for the people, would lack it himself. 

Shit. 

It had been a news article that did it. At first, she had followed a trail of stolen car reports. She knew that if he had in fact been taken by the Winter Soldier, then the soldier would have stolen vehicles to transport him to a remote location. But after almost a month of following up on suspicious auto theft (aren’t all auto thefts a little suspicious?), anything resembling a trail went cold and she had to try different tactics. 

A small, local paper that published online and rarely ever got any hits at all. More of a panel for local gossip than anything else. The headlining article was about a _missing dog_ , honest. It would have been easy enough to write off, and she almost did just that. There were thousands of other articles just like it. But something about it made her decide to look into it further, especially after skimming the article. 

“Third Grader Wins Essay Contest,” the title says in big, green letters. “River Thomas, grade three, was announced to have won a school wide writing contest on Monday this past week, for her essay titled _Captain America Is My Best Friend_. Thomas, who lost her father in Iraq a few years ago, pens in a surprisingly compelling narrative about the loss of one hero and discovery of another. While it is clear to adult readers that she is imprinting her naive childish wishes on a new neighbor, Thomas writes with endearing sincerity, as she truly believes that Steve Rogers lives across the hall from her. The piece is exceptionally heartfelt and relatable to anyone who has experienced profound loss, as it demonstrates what it takes to move on from tragedy. Thomas will be reading the essay at a public forum on Thursday, 8:00pm this week, alongside second and third place winners, Michael Hopkins and Tiffany White. Honorable mentions will also be asked to present.” 

_It couldn’t hurt_ , Natasha thought, _to check it out_. Most leads were dead-ends after all. By the time she got to town, she had missed the meeting, but was able to locate the girl through the phone book. She parked her car half a block away and walked, enjoying the mild spring afternoon. She scaled a tree by the apartment building and looked into the closest window. There was no one in the apartment, but it was clearly an established home, cluttered, lived in. 

She climbed down and tried the other side, and sure enough, there was Steve Rogers. She needed time to think. She could go to him directly, ask him what he wants, and plan her next move from there. She could call Stark or Wilson or any number of government agencies and ask them what they wanted her to do. _Bring him in_ , a voice echoed in her memory, _by any means necessary_. No, she was on her own for this. 

Unfortunately for her, a few days before her arrival, the town suffered one of its greatest tragedies; the death of two teenagers in the center of town, as well as the disappearance of two children. Though the immediate ruling was _group suicide_ , the police were still looking into it. Things were sensitive, all closed doors. She didn’t want to make any sort of a scene in the wake of the tragedy, which meant that Steve would have to come _willingly_. So of course, she staked them out. 

For a week, she watches from a safe distance as Steve and the Winter Soldier took early morning runs and got coffee from a local cafe. She follows the two as they go to pick a child up from school. _River_ , she realizes. And as they bring her, hand-in-hand, to a park, then home, to paint with Steve. She watches from the tree as the soldier makes dinner for the two of them and as they curl up together to read on the couch. 

She approaches the soldier first, at the park on Friday. Steve had stayed home for whatever reason and the soldier was alone with the girl. Natasha watches as he holds her hand crossing the street, and crouches down to sign with her, pushes her on the swings, before he eventually leaves her to her devices and sits down on one of the benches, a safe but not rude distance from the parents of other children. 

She sits down next to him, with her hood up and sunglasses on. He doesn’t seem at all off-put by her approach, which, she supposes, she shouldn’t be surprised by. He had had similar training. Of course he had known he was being followed. 

“What do you want?” he opens in Russian, without even glancing over at her. So he knows then, who she is. He remembers _some_ things at the very least. He sounds tired, like they had already been talking for a while. 

“I just want to talk,” she says, pulling her hands out of her pockets and putting them face-up on her thighs to show she was unarmed. The soldier leaves his hands where they were, and though he doesn’t move to look, and his facial expression remains neutral, she knows that he appreciates the gesture. It makes things less difficult than they need to be. “I just have a few questions,” she continues in English. 

He considers this for a moment, then nods, decisively. 

She wants to ask _what are you doing_ , because that would be leaving it open to interpretation. He can give as little or as much information as he wants. It isn’t particularly specific, so it wouldn’t spook him. She would be easing him into an interrogation of sorts. She knows that he probably wouldn’t give him an answer in earnest, that his response will be snarky or curt, but it would be wrong to start off with the big questions. 

What comes out of her mouth instead is “why Steve?” Because she _knows_ what he is doing. She knows that he and Rogers have a somewhat domestic relationship. She knows that he feeds stray cats each night, and that on at least one occasion, he volunteered at a local soup kitchen. She knows he’s putting the past behind him. What she wants to know is _why_? Why is it Steve? Why _now_? 

Of course she knows why on Steve’s end. Steve thinks that the soldier is his old friend. But what does the soldier think he is? What does the soldier know? How much does he remember? Does he remember at all? Despite what she has seen, she still isn’t entirely unconvinced that it isn’t some elaborate trap. That at any given moment, he won’t just snap and kill Steve. 

“He’s my friend,” the soldier says plainly, taking a sip of coffee from a styrofoam cup. 

“You’re gonna have to give me more than that,” she replies, just as even. 

He smiles. It’s small, but it’s there. “He remembered me.” 

“But do you remember him?” Natasha presses further. He hands her the coffee, which she accepts. 

“In a sense,” he says, turning to look at her, to study her. “I don’t remember anything before the fall,” he admits after a moment. “I don’t really remember much of anything. But I remember him recognizing me. He knew me. I remember that.” 

Natasha doesn’t know what to say to that, and she doesn’t get the chance. River comes running up to the soldier, moving her hands in quick, definitive patterns. He smiles, nodding at her. He looks at Natasha. 

“She’s cold so we’re gonna head home,” he explains, rising to stand next to the child. He hesitates. “You’re welcome to come home with us, if you want. I know Steve would be happy to see you.” Natasha knows he’s uncomfortable, knows that he only offers because it’s the correct thing to do, and so she respectfully declines. 

“Could we meet up again?” She asks, falling into step with him. She asks, but it isn’t a question. She knows where to find him, he’s not likely to avoid it. 

“Of course,” the soldier says, but his voice is tight. He holds the coffee in his metal hand and River’s hand is completely enveloped by his human one. River peeks around him to look up at her, and Natasha gives her a smile, but the child quickly ducks back behind the soldier, putting a barrier between the two of them. 

“Same time tomorrow?” 

“Sure thing.” The light for the crosswalk changes and he steps out into the road, turning his head slightly to look back at her. “See you then.” 

To anyone watching, the entire exchange was completely normal, but Natasha felt her heartbeat quicken, her blood pumping through her veins. He wasn’t even entirely out of view and she was anxious to see him again. But she knew better than to follow him. So she makes the safe move and heads back in the opposite direction towards her hotel room. 

Hood up, hands stuffed in pockets, eyes to the ground, Natasha spends the whole walk back thinking. Sure, on the surface, things seem okay. Safe. Stable. On the surface, Steve is happy and the soldier is not a threat. But Natasha knows better than to take things at face value, and honestly, the soldier really didn’t give her much information to sway her either way. Not that she had expected he would. She knew he wouldn’t be an entirely open book before talking to him. She just wanted to establish a starting off point. To open correspondence with him, and with Rogers. From there, she would be able to decide what to do next. 

She got back to the room and toed off her sneakers, flopping down on the bed. It seemed stable, she kept thinking. Seemed, seemed. She wanted concrete evidence of the safety of Steve Rogers. _If_ he was safe, permanently, truly, really safe, she could walk away with a clear conscious. Pretend to continue the search and lie to anyone who asked. She was good at that, at lying. But she wouldn’t do it unless she was absolutely sure. 

She fell asleep without eating dinner, and in her dreams, she watched as the Winter Soldier pushed River on the swings. Steve Rogers, dressed up in the Captain America costume, looked on from a park bench. He smiled at her, motioned for her to come sit with him. She did. When she was seated, he asked her where she saw herself in ten years, and she couldn’t answer because her mouth was sewn shut. _I never saw myself here_ , he told her in a rueful voice, his eyes tracking the soldier as he ran around the playscape with the child. The soldier allowed himself to be captured, despite the fact that he could easily outrun the child. He fell to the ground, and Natasha looked back at Steve, sitting stoically. He almost seemed like a statue. _When did you stop believing in the future?_ The question was in his voice, but he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t talking. She heard it like a surround-sound presence. Then she was sitting at a table in Stark Tower, and she was completely alone. _Who do you fight to protect?_ Steve’s disembodied voice was in her own head now. And she wanted to say, wanted to scream that it’s the world. That it’s everyone. But her mouth was sewn shut. She got up and ran to the bathroom, ripping out the stitches in front of the mirror, and they slide off her face in a painless but bloody mess. Still, she could not answer. The soldier was beside her, sitting on the toilet, sharpening a knife. _This isn’t what’s gonna kill him_ , the soldier said with this easy, dirty, knowing grin. He put the knife to his neck, _or maybe it will_ , and slit his own throat. She tried to use the stitches from her mouth to patch the wound but it was too late, and though his lifeless body was in front of her, the only blood on her hands was her own. 

When she finally wakes up, it is late morning. She has grossly overslept but doesn’t have anything in particular to be doing until 2 when she is to meet up with the soldier once again. Stalking them before that would just be overkill, she thinks. By the time she has showered and eaten breakfast, it is almost time to head out and she has all but put the dream from her mind. She is haunted by it though, on some visceral level. Something buried close to her core that she can’t quite scratch at. She isn’t superstitious by any means, she knows that dreams are just the brain’s way of processing information. And yet. 

Natasha waits at the same spot in the park, but the soldier never shows up. _Shit_ , she thinks to herself, _they ran_. She doesn’t know why she had thought a second meeting with the soldier would be a good idea. He hadn’t seemed particularly apt to sharing personal information. He was smart, calculating. He probably felt cornered. And now he and Steve Rogers were probably several hours out in God knows what direction. 

She needs to not overreact. Maybe he was held up, or maybe he forgot. She starts towards his apartment, walking quickly. And when she gets there, she takes the stairs two at a time all the way to the top floor. The whole way, trying to rationalize the situation, diffuse it in her head. 

She pounds on the door. At first, all she hears is silence. Maybe there was nobody home. Maybe they really were gone. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. But if Steve was really safe and if everything was fine, then why would they run? Just beyond the door there are muffled voices and footsteps. When the door finally swings open, Steve Rogers, in pajama pants and no shirt takes up the majority of the frame. His eyes are bloodshot, he is slumped slightly. Behind him, Natasha could make out the soldier rising from his place on the couch. 

Clearly, the soldier hadn’t told Steve that Natasha was in town because despite his disheveled, tired appearance, he seems shocked. He doesn’t say anything, just moves to the side to let her in. Once she is inside, he closes and locks the door behind her. She could explain herself to Steve, she certainly should, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. She just stands in the middle of their living room, of their home, waiting and taking it all in. 

There are things she didn’t notice from the window: a small bowl of mints on the kitchen table, dirty brushes in a glass mason jar of turpentine, a single framed piece of paper hanging above the bed, just barely visible through the crack in the door. The painting on the easel is of the soldier, posed on the couch with a book. His face looks peaceful, almost happy. The pastel pallet that his features are constructed out of were deliberately mixed to portray a mood, a softness, painted with a gentle and loving hand. She suddenly, intensely, feels like an intruder. 

The soldier steps closer to her, and his shoulders are set like he’s ready to fight. He looks pissed, to be quite honest. She feels herself gearing up for conflict but it doesn’t happen. Instead, the soldier just asks her what she’s doing there. His voice is weak, quiet. Like he’s afraid to disturb the stillness that surrounds them. 

Steve makes his way back to the couch in a sort of haze and Natasha follows him, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. She knows something’s wrong, really, truly, irrevocably wrong. In the sort of way you just know before lightning is to strike, it is like electricity in the air. Their distress is palpable. 

Natasha remembers being on a boat, the swell of the waves rising high over the ship itself. There was a moment, just a second really, where the ship was at the precipice of the wave and the dark stormy sky above felt almost within reach. She felt immortal in some way, even while straddling her own very imminent mortality. The boat rose with the churning ocean and she could see through the rain, every fold of water, every crash and pull of it. And she looked out on the storm and knew that there was nothing she could do to change the course the ship was on. It was entirely out of her hands. 

She feels the same way, then, sitting on the coffee table in the apartment of one of the only people to have ever called her a friend. She knows the storm is raging around her and if she would just open up her mouth she would drown in it. The only choice she really has now is to hold on. 

She only wishes that she had had more of a chance to set her footing.


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha called him while he was out on a run, so naturally, he missed the call. She called him two more times in the next thirty minutes, but there’s no voicemail. They don’t talk often, and she didn’t leave a message, so Sam knows immediately that something is wrong. 

“Wilson,” she says, picking up the phone just after the first ring. She had been awaiting his call. He hears someone in the back talking, but can’t make out the voice. “I need a favor.” No preamble, no pleasantries, straight to business. He knows that she wouldn’t ask for a favor unless she really needed to. The Black Widow was notoriously capable of operating on her own. Which is how he found himself in a small coffee shop in the middle of nowhere with Natasha Romanov. She looks tired, a little disheveled. 

“Have you got a lead on Steve?” He asks, taking the seat across from her. 

“You could say that,” she takes a sip of her coffee, “I know where he is.” 

Immediately, Sam’s thoughts kick into overdrive. If she knows where he is but hasn’t brought him home yet, he must be in trouble. _Big_ trouble if the widow doesn’t feel comfortable extracting him on her own. 

“He’s fine,” she adds quickly, clearly sensing his unease. “But there’s complications.” Sam folds his hands in front of him, leaning closer to her, waiting for her to continue. “I wouldn’t have brought you in on this if I knew what to do, but I need a second opinion and you’re trustworthy.” 

Sam nods, takes a sip of his own coffee. 

“Let’s go,” she says, standing abruptly. “There’s a lot you need to catch up on.” She makes him leave his own car at the coffee shop, and takes off heading further into the middle of nowhere. She doesn’t say anything the whole ride. They’re on the highway for almost an hour before she pulls off into some town that honestly, was the last place Sam expected for their final destination to be. 

Finally, she parallel parks in front of a three story apartment building and gets out. Sam hesitates before following her up the stairs. They’re dimly lit and some of them are a little chipped. It isn’t _dirty_ per se, but it isn’t the nicest place he’s ever been in either. It’s certainly a huge step down from Steve’s last place. The town itself isn’t particularly unsightly, but the street is clearly not the town’s pride and joy. On the drive from the exit to the apartment, they passed by mostly decent sized houses with large yards and long driveways. But this street, closer to the center of town, has more cracks in the road, the buildings are closer together, there’s more trash on the street. When they get to the top floor, Natasha turns to the door on the left. 

“I haven’t told them you’re coming,” she says, quietly. _Them?_ Honestly, she hasn’t told him anything more than that Steve is safe and secure. Sam quirks an eyebrow up at her, but she ignores him. She bangs on the door, and when no one answers, she calls out something in Russian. Sam hears some kind of commotion from just beyond the door. It opens slightly, just enough for whoever’s on the other side to see who they are. 

“Who is it?” Steve’s voice comes from within the apartment, calling to the person opening the door. 

“A friend,” Sam calls out. 

The door opens all the way and it isn’t Steve who greets him but the Winter Soldier. And by _greets_ , he means _is at the door_ , because he doesn’t seem particularly welcoming. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and somehow that’s _more_ unsettling to Sam than if he were wearing that goddamn mask. It’s the context, Sam realizes. Seeing him like this is humanizing in a way Sam isn’t prepared for. 

The apartment is dark, but there are plenty of lamps. The wallpaper is peeling in some spots, but for the most part, it’s clean, in a messy sort of way. There’s a corner with an easel and a little table with paints and brushes spread out over it. There’s piles of books. There’s one bookshelf and it’s completely full and there’s just _stacks_ of books on the floor. There’s a record player near the window, and a small collection of records beside it. The couch is a dull grey color with blankets piled over the back. Other than that, it’s mostly empty. There’s a small kitchen with a stove and a fridge, a small kitchen table that is covered in sketches and bills and coffee cups. 

Steve comes out of what is probably the bedroom, spots Sam, and pulls him into a hug. The soldier watches with these careful, cautious eyes. Like he’s still deciding whether or not Sam is allowed in this space. It makes him really uneasy. The oven dings, and Steve releases Sam to go check on what he’s cooking. Natasha follows him towards the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. The soldier joins Steve in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Steve crouches down in front of the open oven. 

“It needs another minute,” the soldier says. His very presence makes Sam’s skin crawl. He just _knows_ something evil is lurking there. 

“What brings you into town?” Steve asks, closing the oven. He’s trying to sound friendly and casual, but it is clear that he’s stressed. 

“I called him,” Natasha interrupts, she’s got her chin in her palm, presenting a casual front that everyone in the room knows is just a facade. She’s always all business. “Thought he could help.” 

Sam still has no idea what the heck is going on and quite frankly, he’s not sure he _wants_ to know. Because the last time he saw the Winter Soldier, the guy put a few bullets at Steve, and now they’re... baking pies together? Don’t get him wrong: Sam Wilson does not care if Steve is in a perfectly well-adjusted and healthy relationship with another man. He had suspected that the captain was gay the first time they met, but what he can’t accept is that Steve would choose a weapon to settle down with. The man is dangerous, he tried to _kill_ Steve. Why is Sam the only one bothered by this? 

“I don’t think...” Steve sighs more than speaks the words. “It’s not something we need your help with,” he starts again. 

“You know that’s not true.” 

“I’m out. I can’t - I _won’t_ go back.” He’s not looking at her, he’s looking at his hands, holding a dirty dish towel. He twists it between two large, capable fists. He’s nervous. 

“I’m not asking you to go back, Steve,” her voice is soft, but firm. 

“Who else knows?” 

“Just Sam,” as though Sam isn’t in the dang room with them. 

Steve sighs. Opens the oven, checks the pies again, closes it. The soldier puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“We can fix this,” Natasha is saying. “We’re not asking you to be Captain America again. We’re not asking you to turn tail and run. We’re not asking you to give up your friend. You just have to work with us. We’ll find them all much faster that way.” Sam is still completely lost. Find who? 

Steve is silent for a minute. “You think he did it,” he says slowly, realizing. 

“I didn’t say that,” Natasha is defensive. 

“She’s not wrong, Steve,” the soldier is saying. And Steve stares at him and he looks so hurt and betrayed. “We don’t know for certain.” 

“Exactly. We _don’t know_.” Steve says firmly, probably a little louder than necessary. 

“It could have been me,” the soldier says, almost in a whisper. “Steve, I could have done it.” 

Sam, still completely lost, is gonna have to side with the soldier on this one. Because he just knows that guy is _guilty_. Sam also knows not to say this out loud. He crosses his arms and watches the scene unfolding in front of him: Steve’s sad eyes and the soldier’s quiet, precise movements. He wonders, absently, if the soldier if actually feeling guilt over committing - whatever it is they’re discussing, or if he is play-acting at it. 

There are several minutes of stretched out silence before Natasha finally turns to Sam. She kind of half-smiles at him before turning back to Steve and the soldier. “So you wanna fill him in or should I do it?” 

Steve sighs heavily, and motions for Sam to take a seat at the table. Steve doesn’t say anything, so Natasha does. “Steve’s been here for the better part of the year,” she begins. “And since he’s got here, a number of children have been kidnapped. Seven or so. Two also were killed - shot, in the center of town.” 

That night, Steve brings the pies he had been baking over to the woman across the hall. It was a neighborly gesture. It’s what you do when people are hurting. You offer condolences. You bring them food. But Steve can be doing more and Sam knows it’s just a formality. While Steve is out, Sam goes to the bathroom to wash his face, leaving Natasha alone with the soldier at the kitchen table. He stays in there longer than he probably should, mostly avoiding them. He hears Natasha say something in Russian. It’s very strange. He knows she speaks it, but it always catches him off guard, somehow. The soldier responds, also in Russian. There’s a long pause before anyone says anything else. 

“I remember you, you know,” Sam hears the muffled voice of the soldier through the thin bathroom door. He’s talking in a low voice, but Sam is listening intently. Sam can practically hear the sly grin on his face through the walls. “I don’t remember him - not from before. But I remember the things after the fall.” 

“James,” she says softly, _too_ softly. With a fondness Sam never would have expected. There’s a scraping of the chair legs on the floor as someone pushes away from the table. Then, “James,” a little louder, like she’s calling him back. There is a rustling, and then the chair legs raking against the floor again as the soldier sits back down. 

“Look at this,” the soldier says. Natasha is silent for a long time. Sam wonders what she’s looking at. 

“We’re going to find her. You know that, right?” She doesn’t say _it’s not your fault_ , she doesn’t say _it’s okay_. She knows better than to lie. 

Later that night, after Steve has returned and they all retire: Steve sets up the couch for Sam to sleep on, Natasha heads back to her hotel room, and Steve and the soldier to the bedroom (Sam peaked inside - there’s only one bed, and he hopes to God that one of them is gonna take the floor), Sam goes back to the kitchen table. On top of the disarray of papers, he spots what Natasha had been looking at. It’s maybe three pages long, stapled together, hand-written. 

_Captain America Is My Best Friend_ it says in big letters at the top of the page. Just below that, there is a photograph pasted in of Steve Rogers crouched next to a small child. He’s got one hand on her shoulder and the other hand on his knee for stabilization. The girl is holding up a painting and beaming like she won the lottery. She’s got blue paint smudged on her cheek. They’re happy. They have no idea what’s to come. 

_“Daddy died three years ago in the war and my mom says that he’s a hero and an angel and he’ll find his way back to me somehow. She says God will help me through this but it isn’t God. It’s Captain America. He’s both the same and a different kind of hero than my dad was. He doesn’t know ASL and he doesn’t tuck me in, but he fights bad guys at night and paints with me after school._

_When my dad died, there was no one there to pick me up from school because my mom couldn’t get out of bed most days, and now she has to work more “because there’s only one parent.” Captain America and his husband pick me up from school now. They take me to the park and push me higher on the swings than any other kid can go. Captain America carries me on his shoulders and I can touch the sky._

_His husband reads books and makes lemonade and is very sad but he tries to pretend like he isn’t. He’s scared, but Captain America is helping him, too._

_My mom doesn’t believe me when I tell her that he is Captain America because he lives in D.C. where the nation needs him most, but I think I need him most, so he came to help me.”_

The door opens behind him, and Sam flinches, instinctively. Steve stands in just his underwear in the doorway. 

“Can’t sleep?” He whispers. Sam shrugs, and Steve heads into the bathroom. He leaves the bedroom door open, and from where he’s standing, Sam can see the soldier’s bare, muscled back in the moonlight. He’s in bed, facing towards the wall, breathing evenly. The sheets are pulled back. There’s nothing on the floor but socks.


	5. Chapter 5

_June_

The second time Steve ever ran into Deanna Thomas was while he was taking out the trash. She was wearing an apron from the diner down the street and her reddish blond hair was pulled into a messy bun and she laughed, clearly embarrassed to have been caught out by the trash, smoking. _I told my daughter I would quit_ , she explained, not that Steve would tell. He was good at keeping secrets, he thought bitterly.

He told her as much, and she laughed again. “River thinks you’re Captain America,” she tells him. His eyebrows shot up of their own accord. “Yeah. Your name is Steve and they’re doing a unit on him in school.” Her eyes were a little cloudy, barely noticeable, but she had got this far-off look to her. “She uh, she’s been really cautious around strangers ever since her dad died two years back. But before that she wasn’t, and she used to think, she thought her teacher was _Iron Man_. Can you believe that? Jay and I explained to her that Tony Stark is _not_ a teacher but she wouldn’t have it, because he had similar facial hair and _he’s so smart_ ,” she quoted her daughter, signing the last three words as she said them. “I still wish I had that, you know? That kind of innocence where you see heroes in everyone you meet.” 

“Yeah, I feel you,” Steve had said, throwing his trash into the dumpster and rubbing his hands together. 

When he got back up to his apartment, he had told Bucky about it but Bucky didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up at his reentry. Steve thought, absently, that the old Bucky would have found it hilarious. It’s a hollowness, a cavity, a shell Bucky found once by the docks: something had lived there once, but not anymore. Steve had insisted that Bucky should put it back, that maybe some other animal would live there again someday, but Bucky had made him keep it. And Steve did as he was told because he loved Bucky, kept everything he gave him, so he carried these things with him. 

The most recent time Steve saw Deanna Thomas was the night the Black Widow showed up on his doorstep with Sam Wilson. It was about a week and a half after her daughter went missing, and Steve was doing everything he could to help but it wasn’t _enough_. He baked her pies and made soups, and he and Bucky and Natasha searched her whole apartment for clues indicating who might have taken her, but there was nothing. 

River Thomas had thought he was Captain America, a hero sent to help _her_. She was a kid. She looked up to him, and he let her down. She was gone, taken in the dead of night like so many others. Steve felt responsible for her. He felt responsible for all of them, of course, but especially for River. 

They begin doing patrols at night. Because really at this point, that’s all they can do. The children were removed from their own homes while the world was sleeping and no one was there to stop it. They cut the town into quadrants, each taking one. After two weeks, the closest thing to suspicious activity that they find is a minor drug deal and Sam had run into some teens having sex in the park. It’s looking like there might not be any more abductions, and therefore, no leads. 

Sam and Natasha have been in town for almost a month, and Steve knows that it’s drawing to a close. They can’t just stay here forever, as much as he would like that. And on their last night in town, they order Chinese takeout and Sam picks up some dark alcohol that Natasha likes and they all sit on the beds in Natasha’s hotel room trying to make the most out of a goodbye. Bucky steals all the egg rolls and Steve just lets him because it’s not often that Bucky takes things for himself. He catches Natasha’s eyes while it’s happening and she gives him a knowing smile. He’s gonna miss this. 

Bucky drinks a lot and is maybe tipsy, leaning on Steve’s shoulder as he reaches forward to grab a napkin. He stays like that, with the top of his head brushing against Steve’s cheek. Sam still glares at him, but he’s not as obvious about his distaste for Bucky as he was in the beginning. He nudges the napkins closer to Bucky. 

It’s raining outside. 

Bucky is mumbling against his neck. Sam is laughing at a story Steve is telling from the war, and Natasha is just taking it all in. She’s smiling. With the fading evening light shifting on her face, she’s so beautiful. In this moment, Steve feels loved and he feels whole and it’s been a long, long time since he’s had this. 

Steve is sitting with three of the people he loves most in this world and all he can think about is his sketchbook. He was in art school. A lot of people seem to forget that because he’s Captain America, but he was an artist first, and he supposes that he always will be. When he was in art school, everyone had sketchbooks full of drawings of their friends and family, but Steve’s only had pictures of Bucky, because Bucky was all he had. Bucky was his only friend, his only family. Bucky was all he needed. His sketchbook now has drawings of Sam, sprawled out asleep on their couch, Natasha stirring her coffee, and Bucky reading at the kitchen table. The slight curl of her hair, the gap between Sam’s teeth, the straight line of Bucky’s nose. It’s all there. Evidence of a life worth living. 

Steve remembers when he started school, back in the late 1930’s. He and Bucky worked round the clock the whole summer just to save up for the classes because Bucky was convinced that it would be worth it. _You’re gonna be one of the Greats, Rogers_ , he would say, _you’re gonna make it big some day_. Steve was never sure if Bucky was right or not, but he hadn’t led him astray thus far so he went. And Bucky would always look at his works with these wide eyes and his mouth parted a little and no matter how bad Steve thought it was, Bucky always found nice things to say about it. Once or twice, Steve caught Bucky looking at _him_ that way; awestruck, impressed, amazed. 

Steve never showed Bucky his sketchbook. That much was private. The finished works, sure, anyone was free to see those. Even the unfinished paintings, but his sketchbook was for him only. It was mostly drawings of Bucky, mostly from memory because Steve would be lying if he said that he didn’t spend most of his time looking at that face. Sometimes (not often), he would get Bucky to model for him, but his sketches were mostly done in the private moments between class and Bucky coming home from working on the docks. He would sit out on the fire escape and Bucky would come home and Steve would quickly change the page to an older drawing so that Bucky wouldn’t catch him. He didn’t know why he did it, why they were secrets. He just knew that they were and that they had to stay that way. It was for the best, he would tell himself, stashing the sketchbook in a backpack, it was better for everyone involved that Bucky didn’t know. 

All the other kids would share their private drawings of their girlfriends or dames that they liked and Steve had to keep an eye on his sketchbook because it was different. It was then that he realized that maybe he loved Bucky in a different sort of way. He loved him as a friend first, but he also loved him as something beautiful and unobtainable. He looked at Bucky the same way he looked at the girls Bucky would bring for him on double dates: knowing he would never have a shot with him. Because Bucky was so smart and handsome and talented at everything he did, and Steve was sick and small and was holding him back. Bucky had all these girls and a smile that made Steve’s knees weak (or, weaker than usual), and he wasn’t brave enough to risk it. He knew better. 

Now, he’s not so sure. Maybe it wasn’t as big of a stretch as he had once thought it was. 

Because as they walk back to their small apartment, Bucky is wrapped around his arm the way that dames used to hold on to Bucky’s arms; with one hand in the crook of his elbow and the other lacing fingers with Steve’s own. And Bucky is pressed close and when he talks, his voice is low like it’s for Steve only. And Steve still can’t believe how far he’s come these past nine months. And with each step, he knows they’re moving closer to a future he wouldn’t have even dared to dream of in the days of his youth. 

Since they had begun the patrols, there had been no more abductions. Steve adamantly ignored it when Sam pointed out that Bucky can’t have any blackouts when he is awake. Correlation does not mean causation. Does not imply guilt. It doesn’t mean anything. 

He still patrols at night, with Bucky trailing his six. It reminds him of the war. He knows Bucky doesn’t know this, doesn’t feel the familiarity of it, but he likes to believe that he does it out of habit, regardless of whether or not that’s the truth. 

Bucky still has bad dreams. Most nights, they come home around four, five in the morning, and crawl into bed with the rising sun creeping through the windows. Natasha told Steve before she left that he remembers some things but nothing before the fall. Steve wonders what happens in his head when he’s asleep. If he’s remembering old tortures or if his brain is constructing new horrors for him. He often awakens in a cold sweat, but Steve is always there for him, ready to calm him down. When Bucky finally realizes where he is, his eyes always show relief. 

Steve smiled at her, sad and hopeful at the same time. Because if Bucky has got those memories back, then there’s a chance for the others, right? Nat didn’t tell him to give up hope, but she didn’t confirm this either. She explained that it would be surprising for him to ever remember everything. Maybe in time, big events. But not everything. She didn’t say that he won’t, though. Just that it would be surprising. And Steve holds on to that fact with both fists. He clings to it because he has no other choice. 

Deanna Thomas has lost everything: her husband, her daughter. She doesn’t leave the house much anymore. Steve is a little worried that she’s going to kill herself, because, quite frankly, it’s what he would have done if he were in her position. Hell, it’s what he did do when he was in her position. Or tried to, at least. 

The world had ended for Steve Rogers in 1945. 

The world ended for Steve Rogers, slipped and fell out of sight and no super serum could have made him fast enough or strong enough to grab on and hold on and stop it from happening. And he tried to make it right, but in some sick cosmic joke, he wasn’t allowed to avenge the death of the only person who had ever really truly been there for him. Bucky was always pulling him up when he slipped and the only time he had to return the favor, he couldn’t. Then he was slipping all the time and there was nothing to find purchase on. 

He had died and gone to Hell is what had happened. 

But maybe he had righted some God-awful wrong. Because he fell again and again without Bucky by his side: and then Bucky was there again, pulling him from the river. Saving him once again. Just like he always did. Steve would hold on this time. No matter what. Steve wouldn’t lose him this time. 

So Steve checks on her every day. Makes sure she’s still safe because that’s all he can do. 

When Natasha and Sam were there, they left no rock unturned. If the children had been within the town limits, they would have found them. Natasha interviewed the families and broke into people’s backyard sheds and basements. It was disheartening - if anyone is good at finding people who don’t want to be found, it’s Natasha. And she had found nothing. 

The end of June is approaching, as is Steve’s birthday. And he knows not to get his hopes up for anything to happen because for all the past holidays, they’ve done nothing. Nothing on New Year’s or Christmas or Easter. For Bucky’s birthday, Steve made a cake and Bucky said _thank you_ but nothing else. In the end, all of the days that used to be special are just like all of the other days. But there’s still this small selfish part of him that hopes that maybe Bucky will remember and make a big deal out of it the way he used to. Back when Steve was small and rent was a constant struggle and somehow Bucky would always find a way to make it memorable. 

Steve’s favorite birthday was in 1938, when Bucky woke him up right early and brought him to the beach. It was crowded and hot and Steve honestly would have been just as happy if he were back at their small, dark apartment. Steve was actually almost sure that Bucky had forgotten that it was his birthday entirely. He never said anything about it though, and Bucky had this smirk and he knew something was coming. 

But the whole time, Bucky was laughing and goofing around. He posed for Steve to sketch him and held onto Steve when big waves came crashing down around them. _Don’t want you to get washed away, Stevie_ , he had said, one strong arm wrapped around Steve’s middle. They played catch and Steve built things out of sand and Bucky just watched him, grinning like an idiot the whole time. 

They took a bus home that night, and in the dark, Bucky sat probably closer than acceptable, with his hand just barely brushing the side of Steve’s thigh. Steve looked over at him, staring out the window, and by the light of the moon, Steve could see tear tracks on his cheeks. 

And they got back to the apartment, sunburnt and spent and Bucky made Steve sit at the table and wait while he fetched something out of the other room. He came back with several small packages wrapped in newspaper, which he must have been saving up for for months. And Steve looked down at a brand new sketchbook and fancy pencils and paints - and hell, _fruit_ , and he started to cry. 

Steve wakes up on his birthday in bed alone, which is for the best, because he is sweating in the summer heat. Through the thin walls of the apartment, he can hear the shower running. The radio is also on, their default station: _Classic Hits 88.7_ , a station which plays the kind of music that they should be familiar with if they have any hopes of assimilation. The song _Comfortably Numb_ is playing. 

Steve waits until the water shuts off before he finally gets out of bed and goes out to the living room. He knows he still has a good fifteen minutes before Bucky gets out of the bathroom because he always shaves after he showers. The song fades out and into something that Steve thinks might be AC/DC, but he isn’t sure. He is, however, getting better at recognizing the songs. 

The kitchen table is cleared of all the bills and sketches. There’s a plate of eggs and toast, as well a cup of coffee out and a leather bound book. Steve holds his breath as he approaches the table. 

He opens the book. He begins to read.


	6. Chapter 6

_June_

Bucky does a lot of things without knowing _why_ he does them, as was the case with sleeping with Steve. He didn’t know why he was compelled to do it, but he still did it. He stopped questioning these things a while back. It isn’t until he wakes up one night and Steve isn’t there that he realized that he actually enjoyed it. Their bed is too small for the two of them, but too big for just one of them. _But isn’t that the point?_ he thinks to himself. 

And he realizes then that he loves Steve, has been falling in love with him from the fucking start when he cut Bucky’s hair with gentle, strong hands in a warehouse bathroom. When Steve brought him books and left his dinner outside the door on the days when Bucky was too sullen to leave the bedroom. He’s been falling in love with him, has been _in love_ with him - everything about him - for months, and he was too focused on being good and figuring out how to be himself again that he didn’t even fucking notice it. 

He looks up at the piece of paper. He likes looking at it. It is a good reminder of the first time he made Steve smile. _Really_ smile. A big one with all his perfect teeth showing, and his big, ugly nose crinkling up and _fuck_. Bucky had decided then that that would be his mission, his duty, his job. Fuck. No. His _goal_. He decided right then and there that it would be his goal to make Steve smile as often as possible. And at that point, Bucky knew, he _knew_ , he had read enough shitty romance novels to know, what’s coming. 

He wishes that Steve would come back to bed. He misses the warmth that he brings. Like his own personal heated blanket. He remembers pulling a skinny Steve up into his twin bed back when they were teens, just to force them closer, to feel the heat between them. Just to press his nose into Steve’s hair and smell him, just to hold him, just to be with him. 

He can’t breathe. 

He remembers. 

Bucky shouts, because he knows Steve will come running. By the time Steve is next to him, Bucky is sitting up in bed, sweating. He’s not afraid. Steve is kneeling on the mattress in front of him, smoothing his hair away from his face with both hands. His face is so close to Bucky’s own and he can see his fucking perfect pink lips and he wants nothing more than to kiss him and he probably would have if he had had this revelation the night before. But he remembers now, so he knows better than to go and mess things up. He remembers that things with Steve were platonic, as much as it doesn’t _feel_ that way. As much as he wants it otherwise. 

He doesn’t tell Steve about the memory, because he isn’t even sure it’s real. At least, not at first. But like with the bad memories, after the first one, the rest come easily. He’s still missing big pieces, most pieces, but with each passing day, he knows more. It’s weird. 

It’s like, he knows who he was, but he isn’t able to connect with that person. It’s the same as it was before, he supposes, except amplified because now he _knows_. The things he knows about who he was weren’t learned in a museum, but came from his own damn self - but that self is someone else entirely. He can remember even small details but he feels detached from the memories. Like he remembers them from a book or a movie. 

Bucky remembers 1938. 

He supposes that in many ways it is the most important year to remember. 

But in many ways, it is a year best forgotten. 

He doesn’t remember it right off the bat, like some of the other things. And at first it’s just pieces of the story with no context, but he is eventually able to fill it in. With his nose pressed to Steve’s temple in the dead of night, trying his hardest to match his breathing to Steve’s own, he remembers. They used to do this, you know. Match their breathing up. Usually it happened after Steve had to walk long distances or if he went up a flight of stairs too fast. 

It was in 1938 that he realized that he was queer. And not just like a little funny in the way that sometimes the guys at the docks would use the word when things were off. No, Bucky was Honest-To-God, going straight to Hell, no do-overs _queer_. He hadn’t even _done_ anything by it yet and he knew he was damned. Cause, God, he wanted to. He _wanted_ to. And he _would_ if he ever got the chance. 

At the beginning, he tried to pretend like it wasn’t real. He was lusting after Steve, sure. But it was _Stevie_. He was small and thin and from the back he kinda looked like a dame. He was one of those artsy types and God he was so damn beautiful when he sat out on the fire escape to draw, with his eyebrows knitted together in concentration while his damn tea got too cold to drink every single time. 

Steve never knew, of course, and he could never know. Bucky was real careful of that. Because it was the 1930’s and he was going to Hell, sure, but he didn’t want to make that any sooner than it had to be. He hoped to use his express ticket for a later train. 

No, Bucky’s soul was damned and he loved Steve so he had to keep Steve’s soul intact if he could. Steve couldn’t be guilty by association, not on Bucky’s watch. And so even though Steve pressed his back to Bucky’s sternum and Bucky could feel his chest rising and falling with each rattling breath under his fingers, even though Bucky woke up with Steve’s nose in the crook of his neck or his slick, wet mouth on Bucky’s shoulder, even though he woke up aching and wanting and needing, Bucky kept his mouth shut. 

He had this. This was enough. He couldn’t ask for more. 

Steve is still sleeping right beside him. He doesn’t feel ashamed of it, not anymore. But he can remember a time when he was, and it’s so far away he can’t even touch it to make it right. 

In 1938, Bucky watched someone die for the first time. Really die. Not fade out from being sick but alive one second and gone the next. Bucky didn’t know his name, but he had seen him around. Good looking kid. Some of the guys from the dock caught him and beat him until his ribs were dust. Bucky had caught him once, with another boy he didn’t know the name of, in the darkest corner hidden behind all the shipping crates. And Bucky didn’t tell anyone, not a living soul, but he thought about it all the time after. Thought about doing that to _Steve_. But then he saw where it would get you and he never said nothing about it. Couldn’t risk it. 

No one ever did come asking about what happened to the boy, and the guys dumped what was left of him into the water. Bucky just stood there and watched. He hadn’t even tried to stop it. Steve would have. He would have got himself killed standing up for the guy, but he would have tried. He was good like that. 

Bucky thought about that boy a lot, in the years to come. It was only a few weeks between when Bucky first saw him, his face contorted in silent pleasure as the other boy worked him, and the last time he saw him, lying in a bloody heap by the edge of the docks, so beaten he was barely recognizable. His friend, a different boy from the first time, also died, disposed of long before Bucky arrived on scene. 

He was quiet for a few days before he said anything about it to Steve. “I saw something the other day,” he said, sitting down across the table from him. Steve looked up from his drawing, waiting. “There was this kid down at the docks and he was with another fella so some of the guys beat them to death.” What Bucky didn't say, of course, is that he had seen the guy before, and that he had been _envious_ of him. Bucky didn't say that he’s scared of people finding out that he’s the same damned way. If he didn't say it, it couldn't be real. 

But Steve’s face got all serious anyways. “Buck,” he said in a soft, stern voice. And then Steve was standing, and his thin little arms were wrapped around Bucky, and even sitting, Bucky’s head came up to about his tiny shoulders. Bucky didn’t even realize that he had been crying, but he was shaking to his core. 

That was the closest he ever came to telling. He brought girls home and bragged about his escapades to the guys at the dock and everyone thought he was good by it, but he would rather if he could have had it otherwise. And if he called one or two of the girls _Stevie_ when he came, they never said anything about it, and he never apologized. 

Also in 1938, Bucky kissed him. Just once. They were drunk and alone on New Years, and Bucky kissed him, soft and sweet. And he tasted like the whiskey that burned in Bucky’s own veins and, God, Bucky was so drunk that he thought, he could have sworn, he felt like Steve had _kissed him back_. But that didn’t make any sense and after it happened and he had pulled away, Steve looked so sad and his voice came out so damn wrecked. All he said was “I don’t think,” before he threw up on Bucky. Steve didn’t remember any of it the next morning. But Bucky remembered, the shame coloring him in the ears every time he looked over at Steve, nursing his hangover. 

When Steve asked him what happened the night before, Bucky just told him that it was nothing important. Because that’s the god honest truth.


	7. Chapter 7

_I’m writing you because I’m a coward, same as I ever was. Because I know I can’t say it to your face but you gotta know, you deserve to know. I remember who I was. All of the versions of me, some of which you wouldn’t be so proud of and I hate to let you down, Stevie, but it’s true. I’m not a good person.  
_

_And I also gotta let you know that not every time you wake up and I’m missing that I’m blacked out on the side of the road somewhere. Sometimes, I go on my own accord ‘cause I wake up in the middle of the night itching and aching and needing and I can’t stand the thought of you feeling it hard against you. I didn’t want to put you through that._

_Truth is, I love you. Loved you before I remembered you. Loved you before I forgot you. I love you through and through. And if it makes you sick or sad, I’ll leave. I’ll go as far as you need me to go, but just know I’m with you till the end of the line._

_I have to say thank you. Thank you for taking care of me because you sure as hell didn’t have to and it had to have been hard on you. And you deserved better. Still do. I’ll do anything to make it right. I’ve been writing down the things I remember this past month. It’s not everything, and I sure as Hell don’t remember all that much. But it’s the best I can do. And if you’ll let me stick around, I can do better._

_Bucky_

Steve is still for a long time, looking down on the note. There’s something caught in his throat. He hasn’t even taken a seat yet. He’s shaking a little as he reads it, over and over and over and over again; eyes scanning the page. 

And Bucky is behind him, standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, fully clothed with his shoes on and a bag slung over his shoulder like he’s ready to go. Steve crosses the room in three quick steps, grabbing him and pulling him close. He wraps Bucky in his arms and against his neck Steve whispers _stay_. 

Bucky’s spine is loosening incrementally as he acclimates himself to the sudden touch, yet, in a hoarse voice, he says “I can’t.” 

“Stay,” Steve repeats, pleading over and over and over again, pressing small kisses into Bucky’s neck. _Stay_. 

“Come with me,” Bucky says. 

_They strapped me to a metal table and it was cold but somehow their gloved hands were colder. When I say my name, there is always a punishment, but it isn’t always the same. I can’t see what they’re doing to me. Some small, fading part of me used to like surprises._

_There’s the needles. I can see the needles. I don’t know what’s in them. They hold them just within my view, flicking them the way doctors do, but they’re not doctors. I don’t worry about how sanitary it is, the needles. That’s the least of my concerns now. They usually stick them straight in the veins of my arm, but sometimes they miss. Sometimes they miss a lot. They do it on purpose, I think, because it is a torture in and of itself. I think it is a game for them. The man with the slight hairlip puts it in my neck. He comments to the other man that it doesn’t matter as long as it gets in._

The woods are dark, but it certainly isn’t the darkest that Steve has ever seen. Not even close. Those nights huddled in enemy territory feel like a million lifetimes ago, but Steve can still remember the darkness of them. How, if you didn’t keep track of everything at all times you might as well not have it. Fumbling blindly in the dark for his matches to light up some smokes, Steve would wonder if it was this dark back home. The small flames from the cigarettes weren’t even enough to see his hand in front of him. But even that was a risk. 

And it’s hot. Goddamn, it’s hot. Steve hadn’t really realized how spoiled he had gotten by the modern commodities, but without the air conditioning, it is incredibly and unbearably hot out. Not that he’s complaining. He has survived worse heat strokes than this, and besides, the way it makes Bucky’s shirt cling to his chest is more than enough compensation. It’s certainly worth it. 

_The last thing I forgot was your name. I forgot your voice, I forgot the way you smelled, the way you felt pressed against me. Soon, even your face was blurry, but still I kept trying. I just wanted to see it one last time. I remembered your name longer than I remembered my own._

They’ve been out in the woods for nearly a week with no signs of life. Steve doesn’t want to give up hope, but it’s hard when Bucky won’t tell him anything. When Bucky just keeps pressing further, deeper and deeper into the wild, wordlessly. Steve hasn’t the slightest clue where they’re going, what they’re looking for. He just follows. He has to trust Bucky. 

But the nights are dark and void of insight. Bucky wakes up with tremors in the still hours of early dawn. He’s having nightmares, still, Steve knows. But he won’t talk about them as they eat meager breakfasts and continue on their trek. 

Bucky said he remembered something. That’s why they’re out here, isn’t it? Bucky remembered something from one of the nights he blacked out. Steve guesses those memories must be coming back now, too. He said he saw her, going into the woods. He saw her in the dark, being dragged off. He heard her screaming, wordlessly, a pained cry for help, with no ability to articulate the actual words. And he had just watched her disappear into the night. 

Steve doesn’t know what sort of trail Bucky is following now, deep in the woods. There’s nothing that hasn’t been washed away by the summer storms. No trail that Steve’s own eyes would be able to follow. But then, Bucky is much more well-versed than he is. He’s practiced in the art of getting answers. 

_When I was a kid and you were small, we used to go to the roller coasters and you always hated them but I loved to hear you scream. You were a quiet kid, I remember. Very outspoken, like your ma, but still quiet about it. You wouldn’t take shit but you weren’t apt to yell, either. I remember you screaming and yelling on the rides and I remember you throwing up on my shoes after and my parents were so mad because those shoes were as new as I was gonna get and they smelled so bad after that. I didn’t mind so much though. I wore those shoes until they fell apart all the same._

Steve is sure by the tenth night that Bucky doesn’t actually know where he’s going. That he is just blindly chasing a hope that he will find something. He’s desperate now, Steve can tell. He’s hurting, he’s fucking hurting. He’s trying to right some unspeakable wrong. Steve has known Bucky long enough to know that this is about more than finding those kids. This is about redemption. Redemption, maybe, for the both of them. 

_I’m a bad person. I’ve done bad things, Steve. Awful things. Things I can’t ever fix. Do you remember that time, right before I shipped off and we went on a double date and saw Howard Stark and his flying car? Do you remember that? Do you remember how he used to hang around with Carter and the likes? He was a good man, but I killed him. I didn’t even know him when I did it and his eyes flashed recognition, just like yours did when I was coming for you. But it was so easy to take him out. He pleaded, same as you did. I didn’t even hesitate as I beat the life out of him. And I didn’t listen, God, Stevie, I didn’t listen, I wouldn’t listen._

They don’t talk much during the day, stepping over stones and pushing through the brush as they find themselves deeper in the thickening woods. To Steve, it seems as though it gets darker sooner, despite the actual length of the days. Something about how the trees block out the sun, only a little light creeps through in some places. He remembers being in enemy territory and the raw, weighted silence of it all. Isn’t much different now, though. He could talk if he wanted to, that’s not the point. 

Bucky holds his hand sometimes. In the night, always. It’s more comfortable to sleep out here, somehow, with the roots in his side and the bugs and the nightly noises. Sam would say it’s PTSD. Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. 

_I wanna be good to you, I do. I wanna be sweet to you but I don’t have any of that left in me. And there’s people who do and that’s what you deserve. I don’t have anything good left of me, Steve, can’t you see? I’m not him, I’m not him, I’m not him.ˆ_

The fire is roaring and the night is wrapped around them tighter than Steve’s throat used to get in winter time. Steve reads when Bucky falls asleep, if he’s read it once, he’s read it one hundred times. He marvels at the letters, an art in and of themselves. He cries over them. He cries that after seventy years Bucky’s handwriting is still the same. 

_Your ma used to make that apple pie and I would steal apples and leave them outside your door so she could make it because everyone and their brother knew she couldn’t afford the apples on her own. And I always made sure she had enough in time to make some for your birthday because we all knew you’d rather have that than a cake like other people would want. You’re so you, you know? You didn’t try to be different, didn’t try to stand out, but you do, you do. And apple pie, fruit, it’s so much harder to get ahold of. But I’d steal all the fruit in the world if it’d make you happy. I’d steal the apples when no one was looking and maybe people knew but I was still so careful about it. Maybe they felt bad, you know? Maybe they knew it was for skinny little Steve Rogers._

The house they approach in the evening, and Steve can’t really believe that they found anything at all, because he eventually realized that they were winding their way back and forth, looping around. It’s hard to call it a house, it’s so far removed from the rest of society. Though it took them over two weeks to find it, it was probably only three day’s walk from town. It’s Bucky who spots it first, putting his hand out to stop Steve. They stand in silence for a long time. 

It’s huge, it’s fucking huge. It’s old, with smashed in windows and big stone walls. It’s like a small castle, for lack of better terminology. Sinister and winding. Bucky quickly crouches in front Steve, dropping his large bag on the ground and pulling out first knives and then a gun and Steve is still just shocked that they found anything at all. Because for all of the determination and hope etched on Bucky’s face, Steve never saw this as a rescue mission. He thought maybe Bucky was having some sort of survivor’s guilt, some bad dreams. Steve saw this as Bucky running away, avoiding the real problem. 

_I didn’t believe it was you, not at first. I thought you were a trick my mind was playing on me. Because why would anyone ever come to save me? Strapped down on that table I was already so far gone and your strong arms were picking me up and I didn’t even believe it was you. That’s maybe the worst part, was that when I finally got you back, I was bitter, maybe. Oh god, there was this sick part of me that hated you. I didn’t want you out there. I wanted to keep you all to myself, safe in our little apartment. I’m sorry if I was an ass._

There’s only one guy in the building and he’s no match for Bucky. Bucky creeps into the house more silent than the wind, but he’s a dangerous storm. Bucky takes the knives in both his hands as he approaches, stabs the fucker in both thighs before the guy even processes that they’re in the building. Steve can hear him screaming as he grapples with Bucky downstairs. Steve is already upstairs, in a hallway full of what was maybe once bedrooms, but now is just empty room after dusty empty room. There’s blood on the floor and something uncomfortable churns in Steve’s gut. He hears the crying down the hall and breaks into a run. He opens the last door first, and sure enough, there’s a young boy. He crouches in front of him, tells him that he’s safe now. 

Steve can hear Bucky coming up the stairs, and by the time he gets to the top, Steve is in the hall, holding the boy’s hand. Steve and Bucky go through the doors together, searching for the other missing children. Steve finds another boy and Bucky finds only empty rooms. Steve feels it, rising in his chest, the desperation as the number of unchecked doors dwindle with still no children. They get to the last one, and before they open it, Bucky’s eyes find Steve’s and he gives a small nod. No matter what they find, they’re in this together. 

It’s empty. And something awful flashes on Bucky’s face. “Let’s check the basement.” He says, turning and leaving Steve to trail behind with the two boys. As they head to the basement, Steve notices that Bucky left the man alive. He’s unconscious but still breathing. Regardless of whether or not the man deserves to live, Steve is proud that Bucky didn’t kill him. He’s more than capable of it. 

In the basement, they find more doors to empty rooms, opening them all methodically, checking the closet if there is one in that particular room. But they’re all empty. There’s nothing to be found. 

Bucky takes off, rechecking every door, running up the stairs, a storm of desperation, but Steve is still, numb. She’s not there, she’s not there. They couldn’t save her. River’s gone. He can hear Bucky slamming doors upstairs and stomping around but it doesn’t mean anything. Finally, silence. 

Steve comes up the stairs and stands in what might have served as a living room at one point with the two boys. He knows they’re scared, so he tells them that he’s going to bring them home. He is crouched down in front of them, talking in a low, soothing voice. Bucky comes back down the stairs, slower this time. Steve is afraid to turn and look at him, his heavy footsteps foretelling his defeat. The two boys look up at Bucky, standing behind Steve, with wide eyes and don’t say anything, and finally Steve turns, too. 

_I know you don’t remember this and maybe you never wanted to know but one time on New Year’s, I kissed you. We were both pretty drunk and I don’t know what came over me, or maybe I do. I remember cupping your small jaw and my other hand was on your fragile ribs and my fingers slotted in them so well like that’s where they belonged maybe. Maybe it was just my imagination or the alcohol, but I thought you kissed me back. And when I was at war and you were at home, that’s what I thought about. And when the guys would ask me if I had a girl waiting for me back home, I would tell them yes. But I didn’t have one, you know. I didn’t want one. I had you. I wanted you. You sent me that drawing of my family. I kept it in my shoe. I didn’t have any pictures of you yourself, but it was a good enough reminder. Because I could just picture you on that fire escape with your little shoulders hunched together, working on it while the city went to sleep. I thought about that every day, it’s what kept me moving forward. I had to live just so I could see you just one last time. I just wanted to keep you safe and make you happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. All I’ll ever need._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with this through to the end. This was my first multi-chapter fic and it was a blast to write. I hope you enjoyed it!


	8. Epilogue

_15 years later  
_

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with superheroes. It started with a massive crush on Tony Stark, who was in all honesty, thirty years too old for me. It hit a peak right before my father passed: while he was away at war, I was home alone with my mom and needed something to get me through the day, so my mom started buying me those comic books. You know the kind. The Captain America ones that tell the story of his adventures with the Howling Commandos. None of it is real. There’s issues where the captain literally punches Hitler in the face. We know now from historical documentation and recollections from the man himself that Steve Rogers never came into contact with Hitler, and that most of his unit’s missions revolved around taking out Hydra bases. 

I stopped believing, for a time, that people could truly be super. In the stretch of time between my father’s passing and my new neighbors moving in, I stopped reading, I stopped watching the news stories, the movies, the cartoons. I didn’t want to hear about it. I thought maybe that none of it mattered. My dad was always my number one hero, and he was ripped away from me. I didn’t want to be told that there was good in this world. In short, nine year old me was an anxious nihilist. 

Things turned around for me when Steve Rogers moved across the hall. My mother had told me that God would send me a sign, would find some way to help me through this. I realize now that she had said that more for herself than for me. Her own methods of coping with the loss of her husband were incredibly self-destructive. I was angry. I was angry at her, I was angry at myself, and I was angry at God. 

But she was right. Steve and Bucky were my sign. They were the first people who genuinely cared about me in a long time. My mom tried, but she was never cut out to be a parent. I’m not saying she didn’t love me, because by all means, she did. But she didn’t know how to be a parent. My mother had me when she was 19 and she was scared. By the time she was 25, she was a widow with no job and a deaf child. I don’t blame her for anything. 

Everyone talks about how great Steve Rogers - Captain America - is, but the true hero, _my_ true hero, is Bucky. It’s been nearly seven years since he has officially been granted amnesty. They were in hiding for a long time before that, moving from place to place, sending me postcards and visiting every once in a while. They were afraid, I think, of losing each other again, and so the nation had to go without its favorite icon. After a while though, they got tired of running, moving around, so with the help of Tony Stark and some other major players, Steve was able to get Bucky the freedom they both so desperately craved. 

When I met Bucky, the beds of his nails on the human hand were bloodied and dirty. He had short hair that was clearly unwashed, and his eyes were tired. He slumped and glared at me from where he was crouched down petting a stray cat behind our building. I turned tail and ran away, without even a glance back. I didn’t notice his metal arm, I didn’t notice his pain, I just knew he was dangerous. Like sticking your hand to a flame, I knew he was best avoided. I couldn’t avoid him, though. You see, he lived right across the hall and he would always be getting the paper when I was waiting for the bus, or sitting on the couch while I had painting lessons with Steve. I thought he hated me, honest. With his fierce eyes and constant frown, I was so scared of him when he sat down at the table with Steve and I the first time. 

It’s been sixteen years since the day I first saw him and honestly he doesn’t look much different now. He hasn’t aged a day. Yes, he still has that dangerous air about him, emanating from him. He curls his hand into a fist and you suck in a breath. He is not to be trifled with. He is cleaner though, he is happier, he is whole. 

Bucky taught me how to throw a punch. He told me how to do worse, should it ever come to that. He never wanted anything bad to happen to me again, he informed me. Steve looked on from the third story window with an amused grin as Bucky taught me how to flip a man three times my size, how to block a punch, how to kick, where to hit. How to defend myself. 

So Bucky has been keeping me safe long after he stopped being my neighbor, but I’m still afraid of the night. To this day, I’m still afraid of the dark. I got good at running, won races even. I got good at fighting, but I’m still not ever completely safe. When I was a kid and I couldn’t sleep, my dad used to take me for walks around town until I was tired out. I used to go for walks after he was gone, sneaking out of the apartment while my mother slept in a drunken stupor and I would go around the block ten, twenty, thirty times. I would circle the building until dawn. I used to imagine my dad was there, walking with me. 

When I was in college in D.C., I would visit them some weekends, the way other kids visited their parents. They would swing by and make sure that I had got enough to eat. They lived close by, as did all of the other people who were vital to running the nation. _Steve Rogers Returns To Nation’s Capitol_ , the headlines had read when he moved. It’s just politics though. His heart belongs to New York, always will. 

I was a senior in high school when Steve Rogers came out publicly. It was shortly after _the official pardoning of Sargent James Barnes_ as people had taken to calling it. The two of them were living in New York City at the time, with Tony Stark (I will admit, I was just a small bit jealous). I remember some people were angry about it, but mostly I remember one kid passing me a note that said, _Dude, you were right all along_. Steve and Bucky were married the summer after I graduated and I am pleased to say that I was invited to the small ceremony. 

It was at their wedding that I met Clint. Clint is, and has for a very long time been, a huge inspiration to me. He sat with the Black Widow and it was strange to meet her again in a different context. I remembered meeting her, briefly, the day before I was taken, in a park. I had known of her, but I didn’t recognize her as easily as I had recognized Steve Rogers. She had her hair up, holding a wine glass in one hand, with her other on Clint’s elbow. Steve was talking to her and I remember her head tilting back in laughter. The room was full of all the people I had grown up dreaming about meeting, and I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. 

They all knew each other, these men in suits and women in pretty flashy diamonds and I had never felt so ordinary. And Steve and Clint were laughing at something and Clint pointed at Natasha and she rolled her eyes and then smiled down into her drink. Steve clapped Clint on the shoulder, and went off to talk to other people. I was nervous, and then Bucky was crouching in front of where I sat, signing at me. _Just talk to her._ As though it were that easy. As though, in a room full of my childhood heroes, I could have anything to share that they would want to know. But he dragged me by the wrists to where Clint and Natasha were talking with someone I didn’t recognize. If I hadn’t been forced to interact with them, I would have missed out on one of the most important friendships I would ever form. And though Bucky taught me the basics in self defense, it would be Clint who would take me the rest of the way on the road to feeling safe. 

I haven’t asked for much in life. I’m still not asking for much, and yet I am getting so much more than I deserve. I’ve only ever asked for two things, and I think I’ve got them now. 

Because from the time I was ten, I’ve had two capable fists. Bucky showed me how to use them. And then at the Rogers-Barnes wedding, I met Clint, and he taught me more. I wanted to be safe. 

Because when I bumped Charlie in the American History section in the public library, four minutes till closing, he stumbled his way through signing an apology and offered to buy me coffee. And after three years of surprise gifts and handwritten love letters, he proposed to me. I wanted someone to look at me the way Steve looks at Bucky, the way Bucky looks at Steve. 

I’m going to ask Bucky to hand me off at my wedding. 

I know he will say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this in part because of people's concerns over the fate of River, who was originally meant to go unfound. the story was supposed to end on an ambiguous note, but maybe that was sadder than it needed to be so i added this. i hope you liked it, thank you for reading.


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